


Lemongrass Shampoo

by IrishWitch58



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, gratuitous use of shampoo, hair obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishWitch58/pseuds/IrishWitch58
Summary: Bond discovers he has a thing for hair, Q's hair.





	Lemongrass Shampoo

**Author's Note:**

> The folks at the 00Q Facebook group are to blame for this. They sicced a plot bunny on me. I was supposed to be working on things I already began, I spent the weekend doing this. Not betaed and I hope you're all happy.

There was usually nothing remarkable about briefings. Bond had been sitting here for fifteen minutes listening to Q speak about the mission parameters and the tech he was, reluctantly, handing over to the agent. He gave the boffin enough attention to be able to seem sensible if he was asked a question. The majority of his attention was on the potential directions the mission could go. That is until he looked at Q again. The Quartermaster was gesturing at the miniature tablet and running the other slender hand through his overlong hair. Bond was caught. That hair gleamed under the fluorescents, curling and tumbling in artful disarray. 

He had definitely noted the luxuriant head of hair before but never with this focus. He wondered what the strands would feel like. He wondered if his fingers would catch in the curls and if Q would mind if he tugged a bit to free them. Hair that thick and wavy demanded to be used as an anchor while kissing the owner stupid. Bond wondered idly what Q would do if he leaned over the desk and did just that, sank his hands into the tangle of curls and tilted his head just so, bringing their mouths together. That, inevitably, led to a thought that the hair would be amazing twining around his fingers as he fed Q his cock. Now there was a vision.

“Bond!” Q's voice was sharp. “Have you got all that?”

Bond made what he thought was an intelligent response about understanding the mission was strictly stealth data retrieval. He must have been convincing enough. Q nodded and handed over the equipment and Bond made a rapid retreat. He was halfway back to his flat to pick up his overnight bag when he pulled over and took a breath. He had no idea what had just happened. He had sat in a briefing captivated by Q's hair and imagined using it to take possession of the man. This was not good at all. He was unsettled by how easily he had allowed himself to be caught up in a fantasy when he should have been focused on the mission. This was not something he could remember happening, ever. Maybe it was just an aberration. Perhaps he was exhausted from back to back missions and needed a break. He resolved to ask for a short leave after this retrieval. 

 

Debriefing on his return was a matter of dropping off the tablet loaded with the appropriated data. It should have been simple. He was hoping to report to R. It was late and Q should have been home. It was his damnable luck that Q was out on the main branch floor instead of home or even in his office. “Oh, 007. Is that my data?” He reached a hand out for the tablet and Bond found himself transfixed by the play of the overheads and various screen lights on the gleaming mop of curls, soft brown to almost black. Bond's mouth went dry and he stopped himself from reaching out to touch, handing over the tablet and stepping back a pace. Q quickly scanned the display and, as Bond almost choked, reached his left hand up and began idly twisting a curl around his index finger. Bond closed his eyes and counted down from ten. This was not happening! He opened his eyes and, fuck, yes it was. He was practically drooling over Q and his ridiculous, out of control, gorgeous hair. He was saved from his obsession when Q wandered away back to his office, the closing door breaking the spell. Shaking his head, Bond turned and headed to the executive offices. A week off was definitely the thing.

 

A week away from MI6, from the pressures of the job, from his unwelcome obsession with his Quartermaster's hair had helped. Bond was sure it must have helped. He whistled a bit as he passed security and headed to the gym. He was slated for a more physically challenging mission and he thought a good workout was in order. This early in the day, the gym was not too crowded. He pushed through multiple sets of the standard exercises and tackled the weight machine, finishing with a treadmill run, choosing a hilly course on the computerized program selector. Satisfied with the effort, Bond decided a few laps in the pool would be a good cool down. He quickly changed to swim shorts at his locker and padded to the pool entrance. He had advanced only a step or two into the humid, chlorine scented space when he realized the pool was already in use. He had known the agents weren't the only staff to use the gym or the pool. Many of the support staff found it convenient. But why did the Quartermaster need to pick this morning for a swim? He was actually a good swimmer, demonstrating a smooth economical style in the water and displaying a disturbingly attractive, lightly muscled body. Apparently finished, he pushed himself up on the edge and arched his back, flinging his wet hair back, the water sleeking it into a seal's pelt. Bond gave a hoarse gasp, turned and retreated to the locker room, choosing a shower stall at the far end and jerking himself off with the frantic desperate lack of control of any horny adolescent. 

He finished his shower and wrapped a towel around his waist and was dressing when Q wandered past, apparently heading for the shower himself. He carried a mesh bag, string looped over his hand, containing what appeared to be shampoo and other unidentifiable substances. Q glanced at him and smiled. “Oh, 007. I'll be heading upstairs after I clean up. I'll have your next mission mapped out. See me in my office.” He turned with quick grace and Bond was left admiring the smooth roll of muscles in his back and wanting to lick the little rivulets that trickled down from the hair that, wet as now, trailed even longer. Bugger, he was in deep trouble.

The meeting was the worst possible set of circumstances. Whatever Q had used on his hair gave off scent that Bond couldn't categorize except as tantalizing. The hair had dried to gentle waves that framed Q's face and made Bond want to bury his face in the tangle and just inhale the man. This was ridiculous. He was a man used to controlling his sexual impulses. Here he was unable to think about anything but Q's damned hair again. He managed to keep his mind on the subject long enough and exited as quickly as he could after receiving his equipment. 

 

Oddly, comms were precisely the same as they had always been. Q was the observant trusted voice in his ear. He was never distracting when he was a handler. He and Bond worked as well as they ever had. The mission proceeded with the expected number of corpses and explosions and was deemed a success. Bond was out of contact on the commercial flight back. He was greeted by R. “Welcome back, 007. Have a quiet flight?” She was all business as she inventoried in his equipment. 

“Where's Q?” Bond asked idly. “It's early for him to be off the clock.”

She frowned. “Oh, you wouldn't have heard. He was in a traffic accident. Broken arm and some bruising. Medical says he'll be fine but he's been told to stay at home and rest for at least a few days.” She turned back to her desk for a moment. “Wonder if you might like to chip in for a get well gift?” She turned back to see the agent gone, “Guess not.” She shrugged and went back to work.

 

Bond drove with remarkable calm, for him at any rate, as he pondered what to do. His initial reaction had been panic at the word accident linked with the Quartermaster. If he'd been sent home, it couldn't be that bad. The logical thing to do was go home and get some sleep. Bollocks to that. He knew where Q lived. He'd just stop round with some takeaway and see how he was feeling. Just some support for a colleague. That was a good one. Even he didn't believe himself anymore. He tried to remember what Q ordered when he was at work late. They had brainstormed a few times in mission planning. He stopped for a couple of curry orders and was at Q's door and buzzing before giving himself time to think. 

A light blinked and Q's voice, a bit tinny from the speaker, said, “007. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The door latch clicked and Bond gave it a push. Q was standing on the other side, Bond almost dropped the bag of takeaway. Q was dressed in a pair of hospital scrubs, his right arm in a neon pink camouflage cast. His face was bruised with a butterfly bandage at one eyebrow. But the worst was his hair. It hung in oil and dirt smeared tangles, so unlike it's usual well cared for gloss that Bond was shocked. Q sniffed. “Did you bring curry? I take back every bad thing I have ever said about you if you brought curry.”

Bond carried the bag through to the lounge. “I thought you might need some practical assistance rather than the obligatory fruit basket.” He was opening containers as he spoke, handing Q a box of the fragrant food and a plastic fork. He went through to the kitchen and considered drink, deciding water was safest as Q had undoubtedly got some painkillers at medical. Q was awkwardly managing to demolish the meal with his left hand. Bond smirked and pointed at the cast. “That's cute.”

Q glared and swallowed some water. “Don't you start. Moneypenny already had a go. I threatened to hit her with it. It was all the cast wrap the doctor had left since your bloody lot keeps using up the stock. Worst part is I can't clean up. Oh, I can shower with a plastic wrap on it but I can't get my arm up properly to scrub my damned hair and it still has blood and oil in it and I hate it.” 

The words were out of Bond's mouth before he could censor himself. “I could help you.” At the skeptical eyebrow Q raised he decided he was already committed. “It can't be that hard. When you finish eating, I'll just give you a hand with it.” He continued to eat as though this was just an ordinary conversation.

Q stared for a bit, then resumed eating. “If this is a joke, you can go out in the field with a plant mister and a bicycle for your next mission,” he groused.

Bond just finished his food and disposed of the containers in the bin, reminding himself to take the bin bag out at the end of the evening. Curry left overnight was not a good thing to wake up to. He followed Q's voice to the bathroom where there appeared to be a struggle as Q attempted to extricate himself from the scrub shirt. Bond waited a moment then reached to help, lifting the fabric and helping Q slide the cast through the sleeve. Bond catalogued the other bruises and winced. “What exactly happened? R said a traffic accident.”

Q shook his head ruefully. “I stepped off the kerb and some idiot in a rental didn't stop. I jumped back but got tangled up with a bike messenger. The bike came down on my arm. Heard it snap too. Nasty noise. Didn't really feel it until the medical staff went to set it.”

Bond was setting down towels at the tub edge, noting with approval that the shower head was detachable. “Gets you like that sometimes, touch of shock dulls the pain at first. Where's the hair stuff?” He peered into the tub enclosure. He grabbed two bottles that looked to be from the same company. Both had some sort of plant depicted and an unfamiliar name. He opened one to sniff. Same scent as he had caught after the gym. “What's first?” Bond asked, all business, as he rolled up his sleeves. 

Q pointed at the larger bottle. “Just the shampoo is fine. I can skip the detangler.”

“Never mind that,” Bond interrupted, running the water to an acceptable temperature. “The whole package is what you get. You won't want to be combing out snags. What's the scent anyway? It's rather pleasant.”

Q was bent over the tub edge, supporting his weight on his left arm. “It's lemongrass from an organic product line.” Bond angled the shower nozzle, dousing Q's head with the warm water. He put it down and rubbed a handful of the shampoo between his palms and took a deep breath. He was glad Q couldn't see his face as he slicked his hands down from the crown of his head to his neck then began rubbing at the scalp, tsking as he found bits of sand sullying the hair he spent so much time gazing at. He loved the texture of the lather and the silk feel as the hair slid past his fingers. Q gave a contented sounding sigh as Bond rinsed the first round of suds and began another application. “You have no idea how good that feels, James.” Bond almost didn't notice the use of his given name. He was too busy trying to make sure Q didn't realize how utterly turned on he was. He rinsed Q's hair clean and then picked up the other bottle. 

“How do I do this one then, same as the shampoo?” He certainly had no experience with this product.

“No. Just put a bit on your hands and comb it through. Has to stay in.” Q straightened and sat cross legged on the floor, water dripping down his face and a smile lighting his expression. 

Bond carefully spilled a bit of the detangler on his palm and spread it to the other hand. When he looked at Q again, he had to squeeze them together to stop the sudden tremor. He gingerly reached up with both hands and stroked them through, ruffling the clean strands and making sure to give every square centimeter the same attention. Q tilted his head to one side and leaned into Bond's palm, closing his eyes. It would have tempted a saint and Bond was certainly not that. He threw caution to the winds and gave in to the desire he had been attempting to leash in for what felt like forever. He caught Q's head, drawing him into a heated kiss, tasting curry and Q and smelling the sweet lemongrass all around. He was brought up short by Q's cast colliding with his head. He fumbled backwards, appalled at his behavior. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”

Q smirked. “Of course you meant to. And I wasn't complaining. Just this bloody thing is awkward to manage and I guess I forgot it was there.” He waved the cast and reached for a dry towel. “Here. You may as well finish the job. Run the towel all over then comb everything through. When you're done we can have a proper snog.” 

Bond bemusedly did as directed, the treated locks allowing the comb to slide through like water over a fall. When he was done, Q plucked the comb away and inched forward, keeping his right, newly weaponized, arm carefully out of the way. It evolved from one kiss to many until Q complained about the hard tile and Bond helped him back to the lounge. They settled on the sofa and Q determinedly eeled himself into a position partly on Bond's lap, his damp hair leaving marks on Bond's dress shirt that he frankly didn't give a fuck about. “So. My hair?” Q questioned with a knowing half smile.

Bond groaned. “You were doing it deliberately.”

“Not at first. But it's difficult not to notice when you're the subject of such intense scrutiny. I'm not usually vain. But my hair is decent enough and you're not the first to notice it.” He interrupted with another lazy kiss. “And I do love a good scalp massage so I suppose we both get something out of it.” 

“Just you wait, Q.” Bond tried to sound threatening. He was sure by the light in Q's eyes it was not working. “I have more than a few fancies about this.” He wrapped a curl around one of his fingers and tugged Q into another drawn out kiss. 

Q smile turned a little sly. “I can see where your mind is going, James. You may be surprised to find my own ideas match yours. Why do you think I grew it long to begin with?” He launched himself into another more frenetic kiss that Bond decided was his new favorite thing, along with lemongrass scented hair. He was going to enjoy this new dynamic. He grabbed a handful of hair and heard a definite growl and Q nipped his bottom lip. He growled right back and pinned the little tease to the sofa, both of them gasping in laughter and mutual passion until they managed to get each other more or less naked. Bond got a hand around both their cocks and stroked deftly as Q clung to him, the cast out of the way on the sofa back and Q's one free hand clasped onto Bond's right shoulder in a grip that left bruises. They collapsed afterward with murmured grumblings about what constituted comfortable snuggling positions. 

Bond woke some hours later. He had a cast edge digging into his ribs and his nose buried in Q's hair. Q was still blissfully asleep, breath rasping in a slightly nasal way that wasn't quite snoring. Bond nosed aside a curl and kissed the shell of the ear under it. “Q? Might be best to move. You'll sleep better in the bed.” Q grumbled, still half asleep and, to Bond's utter delight, rose unsteadily to his feet and wandered gloriously naked to the bedroom, Bond following behind and arranging his sleep pliant partner under the covers with a pillow to cushion the cast. He slid into the other side of the bed, edging forward until he had Q spooned against him and he could fall asleep with his face buried in silken curls.


End file.
